Lynne Truss on The Mentalist spin-offs

A thirsty carrot and a suspected wife-killer? It’s time to call the
Allotmentalist, says Lynne Truss

So I promise this will be the last time I mention a certain American prime-time detective drama, but this week I was corresponding with a friend on the subject of allotments, and she said, “You ought to write a detective series about a man who uses his gardening knowledge to solve murders, Lynne. It could be called 'The Allotmentalist’.” Naturally, I was highly amused. But the thing is, the television series The Mentalist does stand in need of a new direction presently…

The scene: a vegetable patch attached to a huge American home. In the background, emergency services are busy. The Mentalist – Patrick Jane – crouches among the carrots. An attractive female agent spots him there.

Of course, there are other avenues to explore, too. Personally, I’m quite attracted to “The Lentilist” (clues available only to vegans) and “The Arthur Dentalist” (clues available only to devotees of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy). My mistake was to tell a professional crossword setter that I was dwelling on this theme; he instantly came up with “The Stoke-on-Trentalist” – which was, annoyingly, far better than all of mine.

Mentalist and agent enter. Mentalist roams about while agent sits down. A seated, flat-chested widow starts to cry. Mentalist picks up a Moorcroft pot from a shelf and replaces it. He turns.

MENTALIST: Why are you lying, Mrs Ciren­cester?

WIDOW: What?

AGENT (at the same time): What?

M: She’s lying, Lisbon.

A: Look, Jane, how can you –

She pauses, chokes on the words. Then she pulls herself together.

A: How can you possibly know that?

M: This pot is one of a rare pair sold at auction two months ago in Boston. See where the other one used to sit? And if I’m not mistaken – He reaches down and picks up a small shard of coloured pot from under the couch.

M: Voila! What happened here is simple. Mrs Cirencester was saving for cosmetic surgery (you saw the brochures in the kitchen, right?). But her husband kept buying expensive pots at fancy auctions. Notice the credit-card bill on the desk, there. Last night she discovered these pots had cost him –

He examines the bill and smiles, whistles.

M: Boy, did he deserve to die. He paid $500,000!

W: Stop it! Stop it, I confess. I did it. I wanted those implants! I deserved those implants! But how could you know so much about Moorcroft?

The agent handcuffs the widow.

A (kindly): He’s the Stoke-on-Trentalist, lady. But I gotta say, this was bad luck for you. Last week, the solution was mung bean poisoning; the week before that, the answer to everything was 42.

The widow looks at the Mentalist, puzzled. He shrugs and smiles, disarmingly.